


A Hawk, Lost In Winter

by bigskyavenger



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Brotp, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Gen, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Winterhawk Week
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:44:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4848077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigskyavenger/pseuds/bigskyavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton is sent to kill the Winter Soldier.  He ... makes a different call.</p><p>Or, what would happen if Clint was supposed to kill Bucky instead of Natasha?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One: Love At First Sight

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Winterhawk Week 2015.
> 
> I don't typically ship these two together, so I'm not sure how much romance this will end up having. I felt inspired though so who knows what will happen.
> 
> I lack a beta reader, so please let me know if you find anything that SHOULD be glaringly obvious or if you feel I should add a tag.
> 
> I can be found as bigskyavenger on tumblr. Come talk to me!

The mission file left on his coffee table was woefully thin. Usually the folders contained a full bio with pictures, information on schooling and education, training, likes, dislikes, daily routines, he'd even once received a dossier that included how the guy liked his coffee. This was …

This was a joke. On him, specifically, which didn't surprise him at all. The universe took a perverse joy in laughing at him on a frequent basis. He sifted through the three blurry pictures and a few notes written half in Russian, and wished his coffee pot hadn't broken last week. He closed the folder and stared at the cover.

_Mission Objective: Termination_

*

The metal-armed bastard liked to move around. Nobody wanted an ex-KGB assassin running around loose, without a handler or a mission, free to do whatever the hell he wanted because nobody was keeping him in check. Clint had complained and threatened and bribed until he'd filled the mission file with rumors, emails, and speculation received from other agents. If he was going to have to hunt down a ghost, he couldn't use only the confirmed information. He needed the third-hand accounts and wild stories.

He had a map on his wall now, dotted with pins marking where he'd been confirmed (red), rumored (black), or suspected (blue) of being active. Eastern Europe had the most frequent sightings, along with parts of Africa, Russia, and the United States, the rest scattered all over the world. There didn't seem to be a pattern to the movements other than following the general trends of unrest, though going by timeline he hadn't been spotted in the States in over twenty years. So much for finding him close to home.

*

Sokovia wasn't Barton's first choice of vacation destinations. It wasn't very high on his list of business destinations either. Especially Sokovia in winter. He snorted, hunched his shoulders, and crunched his boots in the snow on the sidewalk. It would figure that his first reliable sniff of the Winter Soldier came in the middle of January. Now he just had to track the slippery bastard down.

Which meant trudging through the snow on a cloudy Saturday afternoon, chasing down leads and trying to stay warm. No sane person would be out in this crap, he thought, and that's precisely why he was. Not that he wasn't sane. His target was. Not him. _Wait, that doesn't even make sense._ The cold was turning his brain into an ice cube.

Despite the cold there was a decent crowd in the marketplace. The covered stalls were closer together than they would be in summer, barrels placed strategically in the pathways to try and keep everyone warm enough that they didn't abandon their shopping and flee home. The aroma of food suffused the air and he mentally marked a soup vendor to visit later if he didn't find his--

A flash caught his eye and he followed it, not sure exactly what about the cue attracted his attention. He let his instincts take over and guide him through the people until the crowd parted enough. A flash of metal from under a sleeve narrowed his focus. _Got him._

He kept his distance, choosing to lose line of sight for a heartbeat in favor of maintaining a safe distance to be unnoticed by his target. The Soldier was weaving through the crowd haphazardly and didn't seem to notice he had a shadow. Barton decided he'd trail the man out of the marketplace and hope that led to where the guy was holed up. He didn't want to just off the guy here. There were kids around.

Now that he knew what he was looking for, and at, he paid more attention to the Soldier's actions and what he saw was … confusing. They weren't the movements of a trained, calculating assassin like the rumors and ghost stories told. He didn't walk casually or furtively. He looked lost. His gloved left hand would reach into someone's pocket and come out with paper between his fingers, and Barton only noticed him palming trinkets from the stalls because of his unusual upbringing in the circus. The Soldier took a pair of socks, a slice of bread, a pouch of dried fruit, a comb. Each item was tucked away carefully.

Barton recognized this. He'd _done_ this, when he was homeless and lost and scared.

The Soldier wasn't hiding in Sokovia, he realized. This wasn't an assassin gone rogue, this was a man who was lost.

He stayed with his original plan and followed him to a decrepit building several blocks away in a quiet part of town. Once he was sure his target wouldn't be coming out any time soon, he worked a roundabout route back to his safehouse to get something to eat and re-evaluate his life decisions. His handler was not going to enjoy what he was now planning.

_I'm not sure I can kill this guy._

*

The Soldier was a mess. Overgrown hair that hadn't seen a pair of clippers in a long time, a beard to match that covered cheeks that were sunken from poor eating, wrinkled ill-fitting clothes that were probably used as blankets when they weren't being worn. The more Barton watched him, the stronger his realization that he didn't want to kill him.

And that's when he made his first mistake. He didn't keep enough distance between himself and his target, and when the Soldier ducked into a storefront he didn't have enough time to get free of the crowd that forced him forward. He forced his mind into calm and stayed with them, offering the woman to his right a friendly smile. He passed the storefront and didn't see anyone occupying it. _Smooth one, Barton. You lost him._

A voice growled in his ear. 'Keep walking.'

_Oh, futz._


	2. Hate At First Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier thinks the man sent to kill him is a bumbling idiot. He's half right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not know Russian, and I'm not going to use a shitty Google Translate fake it for me.
> 
> Still lack a beta reader, so any errors can be blamed on my lack of sleep.

Stale bread wasn't his idea of a good lunch. It was all he had. The market was closed today. Even Sokovians have a lower limit to what temperature they'll put up with, and he didn't exactly have a working refrigerator here. Or a stove.

The Winter Soldier – _Barnes_ , he reminded himself, _my name is Barnes_ –  pulled himself to his feet as he chewed. He'd heard something outside the door, and he wanted to be ready.

One knock. Three knocks. Five knocks.

He tucked away the pistol, moved the chair propped against the doorknob, and flung it open. A small child,  dirty face and eyes wide , held out a shaking hand with a piece of paper. When Barnes took it, the child turned and ran down the hall. He snorted, closed the door, and sat on the chair.

Sloppy Cyrillic writing on the paper told him a man would be waiting for him tomorrow at the market.

_Finally, some good news._

*

The clouds had returned.  With them came temperatures that weren't quite so bone-cold, and with that came the marketplace, open again for business. Which brought hungry people with money. Gullible people. Unobservant, sloppy,  _careless_ people. They didn't watch their pockets or their wallets.

He ate well. Sipping soup from a cup in his right hand, dunking a heel of  stolen bread in it with his left, he warmed his back with a  fire  barrel. He waited. And waited. The soup was gone. He scanned the crowd.  Finally, he saw a familiar face.

'Next week,' an older man said in Russian as he shuffled up to the fire. 'A transport driver owes me a favor.'

Barnes scowled and folded his arms. He didn't look at the old man. 'Nothing sooner?'

'I will tell you more when he arrives. He can be trusted.' He shuffled away, toward the women selling soup.

*

He disliked Sokovia. It wasn't anywhere special, and getting there was easy enough, but in the dead of winter that meant having to wait for transportation that would take him in the direction he wanted to go. He'd cooled his heels in this shithole for three weeks already  and this was nothing more than dangling his departure in front of him just out of reach.  Another before he could be somewhere warm.

He made a mistake. It was stupid. He spent too much time complaining to himself about  delays and the cold and  not enough time watching the passersby during his walk back to the apartment. And he ignored the itch between his shoulderblades, thinking it was another false alarm. He went four blocks and when it still didn't vanish, he realized he was being followed.

_Stupid, stupid stupid stupidstupidSTUPID._

He ducked into a storefront, nearly running into a tiny woman with a child on her arm. She gave him a dirty look, but not as bad as the look of the woman's husband. He muttered an apology and held the door open for the group of women babbling excitedly as they exited. They didn't even glance his way, and he fell into step with them.  They continued talking, something about shoes. Some things never changed.

The itch was gone, but he still sensed that something was off. He looked ahead at a group that had passed while he was occupied in the storefront.  _There. He's good, but he's not blending in as well as he thinks._

He skirted around the women and merged with the  others .  He found b lond hair, purple scarf, and a stride just a bit off.  Something was hidden under his jacket. And he didn't like the man's aftershave. People around here didn't use aftershave  in winter . If there weren't so many  witnesses he'd stab the man right here and leave his blood to freeze in the snow.

'Keep moving,' he growled. The man almost tripped, then  jerked his head in a nod .

*

' Sit ,' he ordered. He wouldn't know about any traps or listening devices if he went to where the other man was staying so he 'd directed them back to his own.  At least here he was familiar with the surroundings and knew where the hidden weapons were.

'Why are you following me? Who are you with?'

The blond squirmed in his chair and replied in heavily accented Russian. 'I'm only visiting family,' he whined. 'I wasn't following you!'  The way he kept looking to his left betrayed him.

Barnes switched to English. 'You're American,' he stated. ' Your accent gives it away, your Russian sucks. You've been following me for days. Why should I not kill you now?'

'Shit, you knew? You're better than I  heard .'  He believed the lie, then.

'Who  sent you ? Who's paying you? CIA?  Did that bastard  Polzin  sell me out ?' He was speaking too fast,  his fear and anger driving him forward . 'Someone sent you to kill me, didn't they, now who was it!'

The man looked like he wanted to respond, so he paused. He must be new if he could be intimidated so easily.  Might as well let him babble on until something useful dislodged from his mouth. 'I uh. I'm – I'm not gonna kill you. I don't want to kill you, I mean.'

Barnes raised an eyebrow. 'But you were sent to kill me.'

'...Technically, yeah.'

His head throbbed. He didn't want to deal with this. Not now, not after he was so close to getting out of this place. Once he got to France, it was an easy journey by ship across the ocean to New York. The image of a statue burned in his mind, turned green from decades of being right on the ocean. He needed to be there, and this bastard had the nerve to ...

'Brave thing to admit to the man you're supposed to kill, pal.'

'I'm not sure you're the same man.' The blond lifted his hands from his lap, slowly pulled open his jacket, and showed the gun hidden underneath. He lifted his hands and Barnes shot forward and grabbed the gun. Well-made, well-maintained.  The weight suggested it was loaded .  There was no reaction when he  ejected the magazine and let it and the quickly-dismantled weapon clatter to the floor. He didn't need a gun to kill this trainwreck of an assassin.

' And what's that supposed to mean?'

'How about you call me Hawkeye?'

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm poor with dialogue pacing. Sorry. |:


	3. Day Three: Hot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clint jumps out of his own personal frying pan and straight into exactly what you would expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly dialogue. There will be action soon, I hope.

Clint Barton is not usually this stupid. His handlers might argue the point, taking into consideration the number of times he's injured himself pulling a stunt on a mission. Or a training exercise. Or while walking down the street. But this was a  _special_ kind of stupid he was being.

Having just stared down the barrel of his own gun, the one he'd shown to the man he was supposed to kill, the one he'd let the man he was supposed to kill take, was about as stupid as he'd ever been.

'How about you call me Hawkeye?' When in doubt, or in fear of shitting your pants, distract your opponent. He was pretty sure he read that in the Art of War.

'That doesn't answer my question,' the assassin said.

'If I explain myself, will you promise not to kill me?'

'No.'

Barton shrugged. 'Fair enough.' He shifted in the chair so a spring wasn't poking him in the ass. It's not like he expected the guy to actually agree to it. 'If you're who I think you are, you're not who you were.'

The assassin blinked.

'Um. I mean, I don't think who you are now is the same as … ugh. I swear, this all makes sense in my head.'

'Spit it out, or I'll read the pattern your brains make on the wall behind you to figure it out.'

He raised his hands defensively. Having his brains bashed in wasn't on his bucket list. 'Okay, okay! No need to aerate my brain.'  _There's enough air in there already_ , he thought.

'Okay. Can I start with a question?'

The assassin nodded.

'Are you the Winter Soldier?'

Nod.

_I hate being right. I really hate being right._ 'So. You're a myth, right? A legend. A ghost story, something the intelligence community tells its little baby assassins at night to make sure they stay in their beds.' He paused so the Soldier could respond, and got silence. 'Right. I don't think you're that guy.'

'What makes you say that?'

_I don't know, you look like shit? This apartment looks like shit? There's no running water, no heat, no door to the bedroom which by the way has a STUNNING looking setup with the mismatched blankets on the mattress laying on the floor, it really goes well with the pile of clothes in the corner? I'll bet the stove hasn't seen any use and I sure hope you never open that fridge because I'm pretty sure whatever's inside could start world war three?_

'Well for one, if you were I wouldn't be here.'

The Soldier glared.

'You don't … you just don't  _feel_ like that guy. I'm sure you could kill me any number of horrible ways, or anyone else who crossed your path wrong, but I don't think you're the mindless assassin the stories make you out to be. I don't think you  _want_ to be that guy.' He wasn't sure where that last bit had come from, but it was true. It had to be, if he wanted to leave this room on his feet through the door and not headfirst out the window.

The Soldier paced, his left hand clenching and unclenching. A soft whirr came from the joints. He didn't speak and the scowl on his face kept changing. His lips moved silently, and he couldn't catch the words. After a minute of waiting, Clint spoke in a whisper.

'You don't know what to do.'

The Soldier flinched. 'Shut up.'

Clint didn't know how to do that. 'It's true though, isn't it. You ran from your handlers, and you don't know what to do. Even if you know where you want to go, you don't know what you're gonna do when you get there. You have no plan, no way out.'

'No mission,' the Soldier whispered.

Clint tilted his head. That was an odd thing to say. He looked around the room once more, noting the lack of food, equipment, a working phone line. This was  _not_ a regular safehouse set up by any organization, or a bolthole set up in case of an emergency. This was a last-moment cobbled together four walls and a roof and damn the rest. The other room wasn't a 'bedroom', it was an attempt to mimic what a bedroom should be.

'They did something to you.'

The pacing stopped.

'That's why you ran. They did something to you, and you got tired of their bullshit, and you ran. Only you … whatever they did to you, you don't know how to  _function_ without them.'

'Shut up.'

Except now Clint Barton was thinking, and when he got to thinking hard enough he tended to think out loud. 'When to eat, what to wear, when to sleep. They controlled you, whoever  _they_ are. Shit, do you even know your own name?!' He came up with horrible situations in his mind, ways the man in front of him could be conditioned to need someone to tell him everything.

'Barnes.'

'That's your name?' He hadn't been expecting an actual response.

'It's what I remember.'

He swallowed. The spring was digging into his ass again, but he didn't want to move and disrupt whatever was forming between the two. 'You don't – they fucked with your memory too?'

The tone in his voice made Barnes look at him, and the expression behind those eyes broke Clint's heart. 'I remember – New York. Bagels. A war. Killing. Being cold, always cold. None of it matches, none of it makes sense.'

'And you didn't, y'know, hit your head really hard or anything. Amnesia can happen that way.'

'No. No concussion, no injuries.' Barnes was standing like a statue, his eyes staring at a point on the wall. Clint was even more afraid to move. The silence grew awkward, then uncomfortable, then unbearable.

'This is gonna sound really, really nuts. And I hope it doesn't throw you off. But I think I can help. I … I want to help.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish these were longer. ):


	4. Day Four: Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Soldier tries to understand what it means to have a friend. It confuses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this yesterday and I'm glad I didn't post it till now because I re-read it and had to clear up a HUGE continuity error. DERP!
> 
> Also, come say hi to me on tumblr as [bigskyavenger](http://bigskyavenger.tumblr.com).

Things were not going the way Barnes wanted them to.

The soup he'd eaten sat in his stomach, making him feel sick. His shoulder ached. He was cold, and still had to wait a week for his first real chance to leave Sokovia. There was an assassin sitting in his chair offering to … help.

Help with what? Barnes was confused by the man's words. He couldn't mean he wanted Barnes to work for him, or he'd have offered money by now. He didn't try to bribe, or cajole, or threaten. For all that he was fidgeting, his voice was remarkably calm.

He worked the idea around in his head. Help. This man, who he hadn't met an hour ago, who talked too much and not enough  _at the same time_ , who was by his own admission supposed to kill him, wanted to help him. Help.

He wasn't sure what that meant.  He understood the meaning of the word as from a dictionary, but what would it mean in his context? Was he offering to feed him? Clothe him? Find him a home? Take him on a tour of Brooklyn?

_Where's Brooklyn?_

'Uhhh … New York City.'

He shot a wild look at Hawkeye. 'What?'

'You asked “Where's Brooklyn”. It's in New York City. Does that uh … mean anything to you?'

'I don't know.'

He walked to the kitchen cabinets and dug out a box of crackers. He ate some, one at a time, so the crunching sound would fill the silence and he could think. The box was empty before he'd managed to come up with anything to say.

Hawkeye broke the silence.  'Still hungry? If you promise not to kill me today,  we can head back to my place and get something. My stove works.'

Barnes tossed the box on the counter and turned away. 'This one works. I don't know how to cook.'

'Don't know, or don't remember?'

He shrugged. Was there a difference? Did it matter? 'I won't kill you.'

*

'Why are you doing this?'

This apartment was better than the ones he stayed in when he was on a mission. The missions he could remember, anyway. There was carpet on the floors, the shelves were stocked, and above all there was heat. He didn't have to keep his coat on to stay warm.

'I told you. I don't think you're the same guy the scary stories tell about.'

'I still don't understand.'

Hawkeye placed two bowls of hot soup on the table and fished two spoons out of his pocket. 'Well, eat up. It's harder to think on an empty stomach.'

So they ate in silence. The soup wasn't anything special, but it was hot and didn't taste terrible. He almost wished they had bread to go with it, but he didn't say anything. Bad idea. Things like that were a bad idea.

'I had a hunch.' Barnes raised an eyebrow. 'I saw you the other day in that marketplace. Watched you move around, what you did, what you didn't do. You were pretty tough to find, I'll give you that, but once I had a good look at you, I had a hunch that you didn't go rogue so you could have some kind of aimless murder spree.

'I spent some time homeless as a kid. Stealing to survive, moving around so I didn't get caught, scavenging for whatever I could find. It sucked. I recognized it in you.'

'And you didn't like it.'

Hawkeye wrinkled his nose. 'Nope. Don't like people looking that lost. Plus … maybe we could help each other.'

He stared at the empty bowl. He wasn't sure what help he could offer to the guy.

'Have some more soup, think about it. And how about if you decide to go for it, we meet tomorrow in that marketplace. If you don't want to … well, we'll figure something out.' That didn't sound like much of a threat. He stood up to refill his bowl.

*

The marketplace could be a trap. This whole thing could be a trap. His mind supplied him with an endless number of situations in which he could be captured or killed during this meeting.

Help. Trust. Two words completely foreign to him, that someone was offering to teach him.

He was heartened to see it was snowing as he left the apartment. He'd have to spend more time walking to the marketplace so nobody could follow his footprints, but the flakes could play merry hell with a sniper's view and aim. The muffled quiet helped calm his mind, helped him think clearly. For all that it could be uncomfortable, he liked the cold.

Hawkeye was waiting at a fire barrel with a cup of soup in each hand. They sipped in silence. Barnes didn't know what to say and Hawkeye seemed content to wait. He was happy the guy knew how to shut up.

'I wanted out.' The words came without thinking about it. Hawkeye turned to look but didn't speak. 'I wanted … I wanted to be me. I didn't want to--' He stopped himself there. He couldn't quite remember what it was he didn't want, but it meant cold and unhappiness and he shivered. Whatever he couldn't remember, it was bad.

'I won't ask. Look I can't make any promises, but if I talk to my people I might be able to help you out. Get you out of this place, for one, settle you in somewhere you can be comfortable. Get you out of the life, if that's what you want. They might be able to help you get some of your memory back too.'

Barnes thought about that. He had his own way out, eventually, but he had to work only one step at a time. He couldn't plan in advance if he didn't know when or where he'd be going at any given time. Hawkeye was offering a _destination_. Or it seemed that way. For all his verbal fumbling he seemed like he had an actual functioning brain.

And a place to live. Not just stay, but live, if that's what 'somewhere comfortable' meant. He could follow his own orders, make his own decisions. Learn how to cook, take care of his own place to live. He could remember his own fucking name, eventually.

'I don't know it.'

'Know what?'

'My name. I'm not even sure Barnes is my name. It's just a word.'

Hawkeye shrugged. 'So what? So's “Hawkeye”. I'll still answer to it.'

A gloved metal hand threw the empty cup into the barrel and its owner watched the paper curl in on itself and burn. He'd expected different. Pitying looks, maybe, or disgust. Instead of holding his hand and smothering him with comfort, Hawkeye was letting him take things at his own pace. It was weird.

'I'll answer to Barnes,' he decided.

'All righty then. You wanna get out of here?' He coughed after a brief pause. 'Um. That sounded like something you'd say to a girl at a shitty bar. Forget I said that.'

Barnes fought the urge to laugh. It came out as a half-strangled noise. 'I know what you meant.' He didn't move, and neither did Hawkeye.

Irritated shouting across the way caught their attention. Two men were arguing over something at one of the stalls. They grabbed at each other, throwing punches, and landed in a snowbank. A crowd pulled them off each other and when they started laughing everyone looked away. Barnes didn't, and that's why he saw one reach under his jacket.

'DOWN!' he yelled, and yanked on Hawkeye's arm. They fell backward, away from the barrel so it would be between them and the gun, and landed in a heap as gunshots pinged off the metal. They stared at each other in shock as the marketplace erupted into chaos and screaming.

They scrambled away from the shots that kept coming, staying close to the ground. When they reached the relative safe cover of a stall Hawkeye grabbed his arm and shouted over the panicked crowd. 'Split up! Meet back at the nest!' Without waiting for a reply, he scrambled to his feet and ran off.

Nest? What the hell did he mean by--

_Hawkeye_ . Nest. He was telling Barnes to meet him at his apartment. The question was, how much could he trust the guy?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise.


	5. Day Five: Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fact: Someone wants Hawkeye dead. Also fact: Someone wants the Winter Soldier dead. Neither can figure out what to think about the same people wanting them both dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I lost the original version of this and it took me a while to work up the courage to come back to it. I'm sorry.

Clint paced the apartment, sporadically peeling off to put something in the backpack he carried, and stared at the door whenever he passed near it. He hoped Barnes would actually show and not just run off or get caught. Even though he was hoping for and expecting it, he startled and dropped the pack when a loud knock came from the door.

 'For fuck's sake, Hawkeye, it's me. Open the door.'

 Barnes limped in, one knee of his jeans torn. 'It's nothing,' he mumbled as he pushed past. 'What's the plan?'

 Clint shrugged. 'First off, showers and a change of clothes. If they're trying to track us, we'll throw them off a bit if they're using dogs. You can go first, there should be some clothes in the dresser that might fit. Plus you should get that knee cleaned up and make sure it's nothing serious. I'll pack up some stuff and take my turn once you're out.'

 'You didn't already?'

 Clint shrugged. 'I wanted someone to watch my back.'

 Barnes eyed him as he walked toward the bathroom. 'And you trust me to?'

 *

The phone rang while Barnes was still in the shower. 'Give me some good news.'

_'Sorry, Barton. We don't have any active assets in the area. Immediate extraction won't be possible with a second person. Who is it?'_

'Doesn't matter. You don't have anything at all?'

_'If you can make it a few blocks safely, there's a car in a garage. Keys should be in the second drawer in the kitchen. Should be fully gassed up. There's enough cash under the rear passenger seat for you to make it out of the country. If you can get to France, we can get you two back to the States.'_

'France?!'

_'Unless you want to head into Russia...'_

Clint winced and shook his head. 'Yeah, not so much. I'd like to get away from the fire, not jump further into it. France it is. I'll keep in touch along the way as I can, in case you manage to scrape something together.'

*

_Barnes_

The knee was a minor injury, just a scrape from falling awkwardly on the cement in the marketplace. He covered it with a bandage and found the clothes to be a bit big, which he figured would just let him hide more weapons.

He snooped in Hawkeye's duffel while he was in the shower. He didn't have anything really suspicious; some cash, a fake ID, clothes, the usual weapons and spare magazines. He was amused to find a _bow_. He'd have to ask about that.

They abandoned the apartment without much fanfare, leaving right through the front door. Half a block away, they heard a crash, then yelling, then gunfire. The two blinked at each other and hurried as fast as they could. 'I liked that safehouse,' Hawkeye grumbled.

The streets were plowed in some areas, allowing them to hide their footprints. Hawkeye directed them down an alley as they heard a _whump_ from far behind them. They turned to see smoke.

'I think they figured out we're not there,' he mumbled.

'Was that a joke? Aww, you cracked a joke.' Hawkeye snickered. 'Okay, it should be right--'

The Soldier's instincts flared up and his arm shot out to stop his companion. Before he could voice a warning, they were jumped by two men who popped out of a door that had _looked_ barred from the outside. Hawkeye went down in a heap and the men turned on the Soldier with sick smiles.

'We've been looking for you.'

His vision turned red.

*

Someone was shaking his arm. He swatted it away. It returned. He pulled back a fist and the shouting pierced through to his brain.

 _'Barnes!_ Come on, buddy, snap out of it. We gotta go.' He shook his head. 'Come back, that's it.'

'Hawkeye?' The blond man had a split lip and the beginnings of some bruises. 'What happened?'

'I'll uh, explain later. Grab your shit and let's get out of here before more of them showed up. I don't think they know where the garage is.'

There were no footprints around the building, and the car looked untouched. Barnes threw his duffel into the backseat and claimed the passenger seat. Hawkeye grumbled to himself and settled in the drivers' side.

The drive out of town was uneventful, if harrowing. Once safely away and on a highway, Barnes cleared his throat. 'What happened?'

'Clint.'

'What?'

'My name is Clint Barton.' He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel before he continued. 'We were ambushed. I got hit in the back of the head – I'm fine, by the way, thanks for asking – and when I came back up you were, um. Pretty pissed, I think. Two of them were bleeding out in the snow and you snapped a third's neck before I got my head back together and back in the fight. You almost stabbed me when it was over.'

He had no memory of this. He shifted, rummaged through his backpack for a can of soup. 'Sorry.'

'Well, I'm glad you're back with me.'

He ate the soup straight out of the can.

'So the plan is to get to France. Shouldn't take us more than a couple days. Can you drive?'

'Yes,' he replied. He didn't remember driving, but after watching Hawkeye – Barton – for an hour he recognized the movements.

'Good. What do you think, go through Italy or Germany?'

Why was he asking him? 'Germany. I can speak the language.'

'That might be a help, yeah. Germany it is. Anyway, once we're in France they can get us safely to the States. Um, that is, if that's where you want to go. I know you were talking about New York the other day.'

'I don't know yet.'

 

**Author's Note:**

> I may end up expanding these later. I don't know. I'm flying by the seat of my pants here and I don't really know what I'm doing! \o/


End file.
